


all I know since yesterday is everything has changed

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, R plus L equals J, Sansa-centric, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7225117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?"</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	all I know since yesterday is everything has changed

**Author's Note:**

> This sticks mostly to book canon, but I was inspired by Sansa and Jon's scene in _Book of the Stranger_. Forgive any inaccuracies! I haven't reread the series in years. (✿◠‿◠)

"Come on, Alayne," Robert persists, very shrill. "I _have_ to show you."

They brave the snow again, lambswool cloaks retaining only a fraction of warmth outside as they do inside. Robert is unusually animated today, surely a first for him. Alayne's bedtime story of Ser Artys Arryn stirred Robert's curiosity rather than typical, childish comfort. Alayne does not know what to make of it exactly—perhaps Robert is finally growing up in the way Bran or Rickon never will. Alayne does not want Sweetrobin to grow up _too_ fast, however. Robert is determined now more than ever to marry her one day, baseborn or not.

 _I am not baseborn_ , Alayne notes, vaguely. No matter. Not yet, at least. Petyr—Father—will see her marry Harry the Heir.

"Look," Robert tells her, giddy with excitement. "The Falcon's Well."

"What?" Alayne asks, forgetting herself. She's never heard of such a thing. Robert scoffs, chilling her hopes for his emerging maturity.

"Ser Artys's well, Alayne! He threw a coin in the water, all the way to the bottom, and made a wish."

"What wish?"

Shivering in the cold, Robert wipes his nose. "To make the Vale as his home. For House Arryn."

Alayne has no money and no interest living out her days in the Vale, but she peers down anyway, into the icy depths, and makes a wish.

She doesn't wish for Robert to grow up. She doesn't wish to meet Harrold Hardyng. She wishes for _her_ home—Winterfell. For Arya's insults, Robb's laughter, Father's presence, Mother's steady hands, Bran's grin, Rickon's kisses, Jon's solemn Stark face. Her family.

Alayne closes her eyes, and wishes, and wishes, and wishes...

* * *

"Sansa?"

Sansa blinks, fingers suddenly clumsy with her needles. Sewing? Alayne is standing in the snow, peering down at a well as Robert fusses beside her. She presses her lips together, violently struggling to compose herself. After a moment's pause, and a breath for strength, Sansa looks up, scanning her surroundings as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. She's out of the Vale, that much is clear.

And home, after so long.

 _Sansa_ , she thinks, shaking off the vestiges of Alayne. _Sansa, I am Sansa. Sansa Stark of Winterfell._

"Are you unwell, my lady?" Septa Mordane asks, concern seemingly etched into her cheekbones, in her eyes.

She still has her head, Sansa can't help but notice, suppressing her shaking shoulders and lips. Septa Mordane is _alive_. And Father?

Her _real_ lord father.

"No, septa," Sansa answers, eyes on the direwolf tapestry. It can't be here if the Boltons hold Winterfell. "If...if you'll just excuse me?"

The septa nods, taken aback, and Sansa flees.

It isn't until she reaches the hallway that Sansa remembers she isn't Alayne—ladies don't ask permission to leave the company of septas.

* * *

Sansa hurries for the privacy of the godswood, tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat. She nearly trips in her haste to get to Father's favorite weirwood, beside the pool of black water. She has a looking glass upstairs in her room ( _her room!_ ) but being here feels like a blessing, like every whispered plea to the old gods in front of the oak tree in the Red Keep has culminated in this moment.

The water is calm, granting Sansa a look at what the Eyrie's wishing well has given her. It's...she's—

She's a girl again. Not a child, but on the cusp of womanhood, in the days she could only visit in dreams. Before the king came.

Sansa curls up with her back pressed against the face, smoothing her skirts and straightening her furs. It's _cold_ , Sansa marvels, the chill seeping into her skin. Colder than the Vale, a frozen wasteland compared to the heat of King's Landing, even in this ending summer.

She stays for hours, thinking and praying her thanks instead of wishing to be elsewhere, until someone comes to fetch her for dinner.

"You gave your septa a fright," Father greets, looking down at Sansa with some worry, some amusement. Sansa beams up at him instead of the lady's demur she practiced over and over again until it was perfect, gladness near to bursting out of her.

"I just..." The excuse Sansa's worked on withers away on her tongue. "I just wanted a break from my sewing," she answers, finally.

Father smiles knowingly. She can hide her tells at court, but not from Father. He always sees through her. Still, he leaves the lie alone.

"Come on. _Ladies_ should not skip dinner," Eddard remarks. He's teasing her. Grey eyes bright, Father extends an arm.

At three years old, Sansa could only hold Father's hand if he didn't carry her outright, too small to reach his elbow, his waist. Now, they stand tall together, matching each other stride for stride. Sansa scrambles to take it, forgoing her courtesies. It's only Father, after all.

 _Only Father_ , Sansa thinks in amazement, giddy and trembling with joy.

* * *

Dinner is a delight.

Rickon is giggling, Arya is shouting, Bran is plotting. Yes, yes! Sansa remembers this. The three were embroiled in a war of tricks that lost Rickon to attrition and the other two to Father's wrath. Sometimes against each other, often against the unsuspecting servants in the castle, or even Sansa herself. No annoyance brews in Sansa now. Harmless pranks pale to the cuts of Kingsguard greaves and blades.

Robb is...still green. Still a boy. Handsome, laughing, careless. Sansa stares at him just as much as Mother, as Father, as Jon.

"You're quiet tonight," Catelyn murmurs, putting one hand on Sansa's shoulder to get her attention over the din. 

Sansa looks at her mother's throat before answering, weak with the simple knowledge that it's intact. Catelyn hasn't been left for dead in the Trident, beastfodder and shamed by the Freys. _This_ Catelyn hasn't left Winterfell in five years, when she went to visit Aunt Lysa.

"T-tired," Sansa mumbles, swallowing her happy tears. "Just tired."

Catelyn brushes a thumb along Sansa's cheek, dropping a kiss to Sansa's forehead. "Then it's up to bed, my love. I'll cover you."

Sansa retires to her room, waiting until the door is barred to slide to the floor against it, arms curled tightly around her knees. After a few moments of quiet breathing, she allows herself to smile. Really smile. _It's all over_ , Sansa thinks, tension draining out of her body.

Sansa bids goodbye to the cowl of Alayne Stone, to the terrible war, to the friends and enemies alive and well in the capital.

For now.

* * *

If she has been sent back, there must be a reason. The gods do not bestow a gift without expecting an exchange of equal importance.

A sacrifice. An offering. Sometimes, the old gods are considered cruel. Sansa means to learn what they want from her.

Forgoing her sewing again, Sansa maps out Winterfell for most of the day, reacquainting herself with the layout, with the people. She traces her fingertips along the stones in one corridor, thinking. Littlefinger, in all his wiles, all his treachery and long reaching plans, was right about many things. _In King's Landing, there are two sorts of people. The players and the pieces._ Sansa elects to apply this wisdom to the world, the new world of precarious peace she created in a simple wish. She will be a player this time around, not a pawn.

Sansa starts mapping out the past.

Everyone is alive—that's the biggest indicator of the change (unless, Sansa can't help but wonder, this is one of the seven hells of the Faith, and not a merciful boon of the old gods, as it often feels too good to be true). Two, Sansa is younger. Her mind is the same, but her body went backwards. Three, no one has a direwolf.

If everyone lives, and everyone is together, then King Robert has not yet arrived to Winterfell. _Because_...Sansa ponders, brow creasing in concentration. _Because Jon Arryn is Hand of the King._ No dead Hands can serve the realm, so it means Lord Arryn must also be alive.

Sansa tries to remember what exactly killed Jon Arryn, but she supposes the detail doesn't matter in the end. It's the _knowledge_ that sets Father on the southern path, the dutifully honorable path. Father learns of Lord Arryn's demise, King Robert looks for a new Hand, and King Robert comes to the North, accompanied by almost the entire court, queen, princes, kingslayers, Lannisters all, to name him.

The court informed Winterfell of their approach, Sansa realizes, twisting a ring around her finger. With ravens. The castle could prepare only after the news came. You can't host the king without readying oneself for the cost. Mother nearly went grey running around, arranging every little thing.

A conclusion takes root in Sansa's mind. _Go on, sweetling_ , the shade of Littlefinger whispers. _You've nearly figured it out..._

Sansa lifts her skirts and runs for the rookery.

* * *

"M-maester Luwin," says Sansa, conjuring a polite smile easily. The chain on his neck chimes as he sets down his book. _Lives of the Four Kings_. Not five kings, nor a war story, Sansa knows, but the name is a reminder— _do not fail, do not tell_. Sansa won't. She can't.

"What can I do for you, Sansa?"

Sansa flounders, understanding too late she forgot to make an excuse on her mad dash to the ravens. "I...I just wanted to send a letter."

"Oh?"

"Aunt Lysa," says Sansa, grasping blindly for inspiration. "Since...Bran's nameday is—" a month away "—coming, I thought I would ask her advice. About a gift," she adds, hastily. Maester Luwin is already standing up to go, smiling at her with that familiar kindness. Here, in Winterfell, everyone _trusts_ Sansa. She doesn't need to ferret out ulterior motives and unravel facades amongst family, amongst friends.

"Say no more. Use it as practice for your letters," the maester jests. Sansa even manages a laugh, now left to her own devices.

Sansa's conclusion feels right. A raven arrives after only an hour of waiting. _Dark winds, dark words_ , Mother always says.

The stamp is a a circle of Maester chains. Sansa breaks the seal with a paper knife, smooths out the page, and begins to read.

_Lord Stark,_

_It is never pleasant to be the bearer of bad news, but someone must always take the responsibility. Just last night, the Lord Hand Jon Arryn succumbed to illness. I remember as if it were yesterday, his fondness for you and His Grace, and wrote to you in my own hand. If the gods are good, he will rest in the light of the Seven for all eternity._

_\- Pycelle, Grandmaester, Servant of the Realm_

Grandmaester Pycelle. The man made Sansa just as unhappy as Queen Cersei did. Sansa moves to go, only for another raven to appear.

A stag seal. Sansa's hands shake this time as she breaks the seal, quickly scanning the contents. It's in the king's hand, this time. Robert's writing is simpler than Pycelle's, a measure of how often the king sat down for lessons against how often he leapt into battle, but the letter carries the same omen of bad fortune that Sansa wants to avoid. _Ned_ , it starts, scrawl informing Father that the court intends to come to Winterfell. The journey takes about three months, Sansa remembers, vividly recalling the trouble on the Kingsroad. The court takes a week to gather supplies, organize the safest routes, and designate what Houses will host the party. _If..._ Sansa thinks, giving both ravens a handful of grain each in thanks before she sits at the desk, _if Robert never comes up, Father will never go down._

Not unless invited.

Sansa grabs a quill and a spare cut of parchment, though her pen hovers over the surface. She needs to get this right.

_~~Your Grace~~ —_

No. Yes. Sansa frowns. Father is formal first, familiar second. Even the joke about Robert's weight came after courtesies. She starts over.

_Your Grace—_

_It is with a_...considerable, Sansa decides, carefully writing her letters on fresh parchment and shading them on the edges when needed. Sansa's handwriting is girlish, delicate, pretty. Father has a blocky script and a strength in his hand, putting a lord's weight and presence on the paper. It has to _look_ perfect and appear as solemn as Father. "It is with a considerable weight I compose this letter," Sansa reads aloud, lifting the page to inspect her handiwork. "I urge you to remain in King's Landing until the plague inflicting my dominion..." Sansa crosses that out, planning a final edition. "The lands of my people...passes. Sick myself, I dare not infect my oldest friend and Protector of the Realm with illness. The health of the King is now and always paramount to the good of the Seven Kingdoms."

Sansa debates on the closing line before settling for the obvious one, happy to imitate Father's rather predictable ways. "Your servant, Lord Eddard Stark," she murmurs, adding the appropriate titles and refraining from the flowery flourish of her own signature. If Father has no need for pomp and circumstance, then her mummer's message will abstain. She copies the improvements for the letter she'll send back, and fishes around for the spare seal Maester Luwin keeps in the desk. Father has his own solar, with separate correspondence, but Winterfell also works as a many faced entity. Dipping the shape of the seal in ink, Sansa carefully presses it to the edges where the pages meet, binding them together. Sansa stands, winding her way back to the ravens on the opposite side of the rookery.

"Bring this to the king," Sansa tells the second one, enunciating the order firmly. The first raven squawks at her in askance.

"You, to your sniveling grandmaester," she commands with a snap of her fingers, collecting the old copies and the original letters. When the ravens fly away, Sansa all but skips back to her bedroom, smuggling the evidence of the deception away in the folds of her dress.

Dark winds, _no_ words.

* * *

Sansa burns the evidence in the fireplace, stoking the fire until all that remains are blackened pieces easily confused for ash.

The smile that breaks across her face is savage relief, lacking the restraint King's Landing seared into her body, only for a moment.

Robert will find a new Hand or hang, Sansa tells herself, in the privacy of her hearth, soot coating her fingers. Honor be damned.

* * *

When Arya sneaks away from the circles of ladies and their embroidery, Sansa follows, ignoring Septa Mordane's confusion.

"What are you doing?" Sansa asks, matching Arya's pace. Arya shoots her a suspicious look.

"Walking."

Sansa at this age would scoff. Old-turned-young Sansa is determined to savor every moment at home.

"Can I join you?"

Arya stops short, squinting. "Why?"

"Because I want to spend some time with you," Sansa offers, patiently. Why lose her temper with an Arya she previously did not appreciate? Sansa will do better. This is just as much a second chance for friendship as it is for life and happiness. "Is that all right?"

Arya looks genuinely shocked. She recovers after a beat, sidling a skeptical look at Sansa. "We're going to the yard. Come on."

"With the boys," Sansa affirms, letting Arya lead.

"Of course with the boys. Stupid."

Just like old times, Sansa rejoices, lifting her skirts another inch to keep up.

* * *

Sansa finds a seat beside Rickon, getting a clumsy kiss to her cheek for showing up. Sansa grins.

"Having fun, Rick?" She asks, ruffling his hair. Rickon giggles.

"Bran keeps missing," Rickon jeers, too loud to be the conspiratorial whisper he is going for. Robb and Jon's mirth joins Rickon's.

"Rickon!" Bran complains, red-faced.

"Which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Father reproaches from the balcony, to Mother's amusement. "Keep practicing, Bran. Go on."

Bran readies the arrow, fierce as what Sansa imagines Brandon IX to be, the Stark who stopped Skagosi raids in the Bay of Seals.

Arya's unexpected shot hits dead center, making Sansa and the boys shout with laughter when Bran gives chase around the yard, the two of them darting between, up, and around columns, carts, fences, and busy servants. _She's good_ , Sansa thinks. Has Sansa not noticed?

Perhaps not.

* * *

Ser Rodrik brings news of a deserter from the Night's Watch. Sansa intends to go along and insinuate herself into the Stark tradition, but it strikes her, as Father has the horses prepared. This boy will be beheaded. _Beheaded_. Ice will do what it's meant for, instead of cutting Father and Septa Mordane and Jory and the rest. Sansa could not look away at the Sept of Baelor, but she can hide from it now.

"You look pale, Sansa," Mother comments, meeting Sansa in the yard. With a start, Sansa realizes she's been sitting alone for some time. Rickon and Arya were carted off to lessons, while Bran, Jon, Robb, Father, and the other men go to witness the deserter's sentencing.

"Just tired."

Catelyn's eyes narrow. Sansa can't figure out how her parents see the tell she hides so well in King's Landing, but it's happened again.

"You've been so tired lately..." Catelyn relaxes slightly, lowering her voice. Has she seen Sansa watching the skies? "Perhaps—"

Sansa can't stop the laugh that gets out of her, knowing what Catelyn is trying to imply seconds before it's said. "Oh, no. Not yet." Sansa won't forget _that_ morning with Shae, the both of them desperately trying to hide evidence that hastened her wedding to Joffrey.

"If you're sure," Catelyn concedes, doubtful. Her eyes flit away from Sansa, following a shape in the sky. "Hmm. Our first raven in weeks."

"I'll get it," Sansa says, quickly, already picking up her skirts to beat her mother _and_ Maester Luwin to the rookery. "I'm faster!"

"Tired," Catelyn repeats, sharing an incredulous look with Septon Chayle, watching Sansa vanish around a corner.

* * *

"That's for me, that's mine," Sansa pants, reaching awkwardly for the letter. Maester Luwin surrenders it without a fight.

"Writing a new friend in the Vale, are we?"

An opening. "Yes," Sansa gets out, working to catch her breath. "He's..." Sansa inhales, bright red. Waymar Royce, Harrold Hardyng, Lyn Corbray...the names jump to mind, all viable candidates for Sansa to love in another life. The maester chuckles, taps his nose.

"Your secret is safe with me, Sansa. Though," Maester Luwin continues, solemn, "I'll need to inform your father if things get...serious."

"Idle flirtation," Sansa asserts, innocently, cringing when she remembers she's still a girl. Her maester's droll look returns at the door.

"Don't grow up too quickly."

When Sansa is alone again, she rips the seal off and reads through the contents as fast she can. Her correspondent is actually Lysa, who tearfully accuses the Lannisters of murdering Jon Arryn. It's bait for Mother and Father to investigate. Their honor, their downfall. 

"No, Aunt Lysa," Sansa murmurs, stuffing the letter into the hearth. The embers burn the fingertips of her left hand, but Sansa only shoves harder, flinging ash in every direction and dirtying her dress. Mother will be furious. "The Starks aren't going anywhere."

 _That takes care of everything_ , Sansa determines. King Robert and company believe Father and all of Winterfell has the plague, certainly barring anyone below the Neck from visiting for a long while. No one knows of Jon Arryn's untimely demise, least of all Sansa's parents. The deception delays or even blocks the Stark involvement altogether, Sansa muses. If Eddard Stark does not duel with Jaime Lannister, does not fall into Cersei Lannister's crosshairs, does not provoke the ire of Joffrey Baratheon, does not do the _honorable_ thing, the Starks will not lose Robb and Catelyn and Grey Wind to the Freys. The Starks will not lose Bran and Rickon and Jeyne and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik and Winterfell itself to Theon and the Boltons. The Starks will not lose Arya to the rabble of King's Landing, and Sansa and Lady to the Lannister lions. _We will all be safe_ , Sansa reasons. _Us and thousands of men in the North, the Riverlands, and so on._

After a minute to collect herself, Sansa retreats to the privacy to her bedroom, refusing even the company of dear Jeyne Poole.

* * *

"Sansa," Arya shouts, knocking half a dozen times on the door. She raps another dozen knocks. "Sansa, get out here!"

"What?" Sansa calls, drowsily, roused from a nap. Her excuses of exhaustion aren't inaccurate. Sansa spends more of her time outside, putting cricks in her neck after scouring at the skies for ravens, runs in her dresses chasing after her brothers and sister. She spares little thought at all to sewing. She ought to stay consistent, act like herself. Act as if nothing is different, as if nothing has changed.

_But _, Sansa thinks, _it has_. She was the only Stark left, once, save for Jon. That loneliness doesn't vanish all at once.__

"Just come on!"

Twisting her hair into a messy braid on her way out into the corridor, Sansa is nearly bowled over by dogs. No, not _dogs_ —

"Look!" Bran shouts, jumping up and down, soon-to-named Summer grasping his arm for dear life. "Direwolves! Real direwolves!"

Robb teases Grey Wind with a morsel from the kitchens, Rickon runs amok with Shaggydog in his arms, utterly delighted. Arya is curled on the floor with Nymeria, who yelps like Sansa's sister does when she's excited. Jon cradles Ghost carefully, both silent but content. Theon grunts when he spots Sansa, and distributes the last of the litter into Sansa's waiting embrace, the smallest pup of the lot.

"Hello, Lady," Sansa murmurs, spirits lifting higher the Wall. _I won't lose you again_ , Sansa promises. Lady blinks slowly, trustingly.

"Lady?" Arya groans from the floor. "Oh, _no_."

* * *

Winterfell celebrates Bran's nameday with a festival. Almost every House in the North attends, showering her brother with presents.

"Sansa!" Bran crows when he opens her gift. She's made him another cloak to wear in the nearing autumn season, fixed with fur and ears and cloth teeth, reminiscent of a direwolf. He drags the hood over his eyes and cups his hands around his mouth, howling like Summer (Summer, not to be outdone, howls along with him). The lords and ladies in the audience applaud as Bran scampers over to hug her, bringing a blush to Sansa's cheeks. In the Red Keep, any attention on Sansa meant humiliation; here, at home, praise is a treasure.

"Bran," Mother chastises, laughing. Father's smile lacks all sternness as he is wont to do—Sansa sees he is happy, truly happy.

Robb drags Bran off to the archery competition, half the party trailing behind. Sansa beckons Lady to follow, but a voice stops her.

"Bran will not receive his most important gift," a boy tells her, so solemn he ought to wear black, like a man of the Watch.

"Pardon my brother, my lady," Meera Reed interrupts, apologetic. "Mayhaps we steal a moment of your time?"

* * *

"You changed everything," Jojen chides after they've relocated to the godswood, green eyes severe. " _Everything_."

Sansa will not suffer another Joffrey, another Sweetrobin. She sneers right back, nearly snarls like Shaggydog.

"She averted many tragedies," Meera argues in Sansa's defense, pursing her lips. "All the crannogmen say so."

House Reed of the Neck, Sansa remembers. _Sigil?_ Maester Luwin would ask. _A black lizard lion on grey-green._

"What tragedies?" Sansa asks, playing the fool. Howland Reed is Father's bannerman, but his children seem...otherwordly. Strange.

They see through her anyway.

"The War of the Five Kings," Meera elaborates, just as Jojen says, "the new three-eyed raven."

"That's just a story," Sansa tells Jojen, but Meera's answer is worrisome. Sansa isolated the North—has war begun without it?

"He exists. And now Bran will never meet him."

"Why does _Bran_ need to meet him?" Sansa demands, ironclad grip on her temper loosening with every sullen word out of Jojen's mouth.

"Bran has a great destiny," Jojen persists. _What destiny_? Sansa thinks, angered. _To be murdered by Theon?_

"Bran died," Sansa snaps at them, straightening her spine and grasping her hands together. Lady gives a growl at Sansa's feet, fierce as Grey Wind. "Bran died, Rickon died—Winterfell _burned_! Robb lost the North! What gives _you_ the right to lecture _me_ about destiny?"

"Jojen has greensight," Meera explains, one wary eye on Lady. "He Sees the things that are to come."

"What things?"

"A chained wolf," says Jojen. His gaze on her looks older than Maester Luwin's. "The three eyed raven trying to free him."

"Free her?" Meera murmurs after a moment, questioningly. Two pairs of green eyes meet, then look to Sansa. Consider her. Widen.

" _You're_ the chained wolf now," Jojen breathes, a little wonderingly. The snooty look of his vanishes—now, he looks intrigued.

"What does that even _mean_?" Sansa groans, at wits end. The conversation feels less like a rebuke, more like a lesson. 

"You'd better sit down," Meera suggests, grinning. "My brother likes to talk."

* * *

It's madness. Sheer madness. Sansa, says the Reeds, serves the old gods. A player in the world of men, a pawn in the world beyond.

"The war took away all the believers," says Meera. The Northmen, Sansa supposes. The men who keep the old gods alive.

"Everyone who knows the stories," Jojen adds.

Old Nan's stories. The tales of what lurks Beyond the Wall, in the Lands of Always Winter. Things Maester Luwin insists are just stories.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Sansa asks, stroking Lady's fur to downplay her curiosity, her skepticism, her fear. "I'm just a girl."

" _Just_ the girl that saved thousands of lives," Meera points out, sternly. She's like Arya in face, in clothes, in character. Sansa admires it.

"You can save more," Jojen encourages. "You have the Sight your brother never had. The ability to See what happened. What will happen."

"And what will happen?"

Sansa does not like the answer. White Walkers? The dead who attack in the Long Night, woken from their sleep at last.

She understands, very suddenly, thoughts moving faster than her lips.

"You—the gods. They want us to go north. Not south." No one was supposed to die in a war for the Iron Throne, a southerner's claim, meaningless in the end. _No_ , Sansa realizes. The old gods want their servants to protect their lands from _the_ dead. A far bigger problem than a royal seat. It's what the Night's Watch is meant for, what it was created for. Defending the realm for the good of all, not some.

Meera and Jojen look alarmingly calm in the face of an approaching darkness, famine, and a terror lasting a generation.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sansa repeats, voice high with stress. It's mad, all of it. Like the tales of snarks and grumpkins. But...she believes the Reeds. She even trusts the Reeds. Meera named the awful war that stole Sansa's family in a world where it did _not_ occur.

"Wait for the dragon queen," Jojen concludes, simply. "If Lord Eddard believes you, the North will believe him."

* * *

Returning to normalcy after Jojen and Meera's momentous confessions is a challenge.

Meera and Arya take to one another like true sisters (Sansa is a little jealous), while Jojen entertains Sansa's brothers with his storytelling, speaking in his slow, thoughtful manner. Father seems pleased to see them, albeit surprised. No one has heard from Howland Reed since...well, Robert's Rebellion.

In the interim, Sansa withdraws from them all, preferring only Lady's company. There's too much on her mind, too much at stake.

 _The Boltons on the vanguard_? She thinks, wishing the Bolton heir and bastard hadn't killed each other in a duel (Meera's coy mention during the godswood conference, earning Sansa's highest esteem) if merely for the pleasure of sending them first to the Others.

Deep in thought, Sansa bumps right into Father on her way to the godswood. Sansa apologizes, but Father's wearing his lord's face.

"We need to talk, Sansa," says Father, sternly, disregarding the collision completely.

"Now?" Sansa asks, meek as a mouse. "I'm...I was about to pray."

"Now."

He joins her in front of the black pool and the familiar weirwood. They don't sit, Sansa notices, apprehensive. If Father means to speak with her about idle matters, they will sit on the bank. If Father means to admonish her, they stand formally, as a lord and a lady.

Sansa is always the lady. Was always the lady. Now, she floats between lady and...greenseer understudy. She smooths out her skirts.

"Yes, Father?"

Father holds up a letter. The seal—a stag on a yellow, inlaid with fire—is broken. Sansa attempts to appear politely interested.

"I declare upon the honor of my House, that my brother Robert left no trueborn heirs, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella, being born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Jaime Lannister," Father reads aloud, frostily. He tucks the letter into his pocket and clasps his hands in front of him, Sansa's mirror image when confronted at court. "King Robert is dead, Sansa."

"He _is_?"

Sansa's disbelief misses just the right pitch, like Bran's bowarm _just_ misses the target. If possible, Father's frown deepens.

"Sansa, I want to know why I was not informed that Jon Arryn and King Robert died." _He's grieving. He loved Robert._

"Perhaps..." Sansa mumbles, ashamed, resisting the urge to twist her hands. This will be a task. "Someone shot the ravens down."

"Or," Father suggests, grim, "someone in Winterfell has taken the letters."

Sansa doesn't blink, doesn't alter her expression of dutiful attention. He sighs.

"I know it was you. What I don't know is why," Father went on, waving off her protest. "Sansa, _stop_. Your new interest in ravenry gives you away."

Sansa scowls, having half a mind to feign her ignorance again. Jojen's words return to her. _If Lord Eddard believes you..._

"To protect you."

Father's eyebrows jump to his hairline. "Protect me?"

Sansa studies the pool rather than Father, gathering her courage. She's seen more than she's ever needed in that terrible other life, enough to steer this one on another course, a happier course. Sansa is older than her years, older than her body. If she remained in the world with the war, she may've grown older than even Father, like she would Robb and Mother and all the rest, even the Lady Olenna.

"I burned the letters from King Robert," she confesses, meeting his eyes. "Lord Arryn was poisoned and the king wanted a new Hand."

Shock colors Father's features, dulling them to a gray.

"It sounds...foolish," Sansa admits, choosing her words carefully. "But all of this has already happened. Only...you accepted the position."

"As Hand of the King," Father clarifies, following along with what sounds like a fever dream, or a nightmare. Just as carefully as Sansa.

She gestures for him to sit. When Father's image is closer to the black pool, Sansa continues. It's a boon that she's allowed to go on—Father will not give her this opportunity again. He gives the same courtesy to the people who line up for his justice in the Great Hall, listening to their testimonies before doling out the sentence. Father must see where it all went wrong, where his kind of justice failed. Remembering his low tolerance for mummery, Sansa jumps right into telling the truth, praying Father won't think she's spinning a thread of air, of lies. 

"We went south," she begins, setting a pace around the pool, unable to stand still. "You, Arya, and I."

"Not Bran?" Father asks despite himself. Robb remaining in the North is obvious. "He wants to be a knight. Join the Kingsguard."

"The Lannisters pushed Bran out a window," Sansa counters, to his dismay. Father needs almost every detail. "He never walked again."

Sansa skips the execution of Lady, unable to think of the time she parted with her sweet direwolf. Where to go now?

"You were Hand. It didn't go well," Sansa continues. Father always looked so unhappy. "The Lannisters plotted behind your back."

She's missing something. It hits her on the next lap. "Mother kidnapped Tyrion Lannister. She thought _he_ tried to kill Bran. It didn't matter," she adds, more as an afterthought. "The war went on anyway. Tywin Lannister sent his men to rip apart the Riverlands."

"To punish your mother," Father guesses correctly, grim. He looks sick, less incredulous than before. Sansa nods.

"King Robert went on a hunt. You accused the queen of treason." She skips the rumors. "Robert died, and Joffrey became king."

Her paces bring her opposite Father. Their reflections meet in the pool, still as a mirror. "Joffrey promised he would show you mercy. You were going to take the black, like Jon."

"Like Benjen," Father adds, troubled. It's a lot, Sansa knows. Jon, Joffrey, Robert...still, she has to go on. She must tell _someone_.

"He didn't show you any mercy."

Father looks alarmed, like her way of speaking only touched him now. _Didn't_. The past tense, Maester Luwin would say. Father sees it, sees he died. Sansa was a lady of little emotion in King's Landing by necessity, but her tears here are unstoppable. She needs them to explain the horrible truths Eddard Stark unwittingly brought about by his death. She wants to push him at the chest and scream— _do you know what they did to you?_ —just to make sure her words are reaching him. Just as much as she wants to hug him and never let go.

"They executed you with Ice," Sansa recounts, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. The tears keep coming. "Then Robb started a war for you."

"Robb's only a boy," Father replies, faintly. _I have him_ , she thinks. _He believes me_.

"We all grew up after you died," Sansa disagrees. She has to sit. Father drapes an arm over her shoulders. Lady curls close to their boots.

"So..." Father ventures, as if this is any other story with Bran the Builder. A small acknowledgment that he is still listening. "What next?"

"Stannis and Renly fought for the crown. Balon Greyjoy for the Iron Islands. Joffrey for the realm, Robb for the North."

Father looks wry. "Crowns sold at nine a penny." The War of the Ninepenny Kings, Sansa recalls, vaguely. A Blackfyre Rebellion.

She presses on, undeterred.

"Robb lost," Sansa admits, curling closer to Father. The next words—the worst—are whispered into his neck, barely discernible.

"They —the Freys—beheaded him at Uncle Edmure's wedding. Put Grey Wind's head...on him. His body," Sansa breathes, as Father shivers with fear, with agony. "Threw Mother naked into the Trident. Cut her throat." It's a phantom pain to them here, but genuine.

Mother is in the sept at this hour, as is her custom. Sansa wants to bring Father to her, to show him his lady wife lives, whole and happy.

"And you?" Father asks, finding his voice again, however strained. He moves back an inch, boring grey Stark gloom to blue Tully sorrow.

"They married me to Tyrion," she murmurs, grateful to sink to Father's arms as he tugs her close again. "I became...Lady Lannister."

"Sansa," is all Father says. He looks as stricken as he did in front of Baelor, whereas Sansa smiled, thinking it would turn out right.

"I burned the letters," Sansa whispers, steadfast. Heartsick. "I burned the letters to spare you dishonor. To save you. To save _everyone_."

They sit in silence until evenfall, uncaring of the chill. It's a lot to swallow. Father recognizing the folly of his own decisions (paired with Lannister schemes, and Joffrey's true colors). Robb's determination to honor him, though it led the North to absolute ruin. Mother's loyalty to both of them, all of her family and children, unwavering commitment of her House sending her to painful, watery depths.

At last, Father moves to get up. With a sigh, Sansa follows.

"You were very brave, Sansa," Father says. Telling the truth, he means, but it could go to either Sansa, survivors of much misery.

She waits.

Father gives the letter another once over. "Our family never does well in the South," Father concedes, regretful.

They stride to the entrance of the godswood, where a torch rests. With no hesitation, Father burns the letter. They watch it turn to ashes.

They have so much power now, in this very moment. Power Sansa needed as prisoner, power she gratefully retains in Winterfell.

"We should never leave the North again," Sansa murmurs. Father manages a small smile, as if Sansa is the elder of the two and wiser.

Maybe so. The least naive, perhaps.

"We endure here. We always have."

"Winter is coming," Sansa tells him, never heeding the words much until winter was all the other Sansa could count on.

A pause. "I can tell you when," she admits, giving him a conspiratorial smile. "We can be prepared. Set more food aside."

Father laughs. Inclines his head.

"I ought to put you in charge of our accounts."

Taking his proffered arm, Sansa is led to dinner by her very much alive Father, with no shadows in her eyes, nor in his.

* * *

News trickles past the Neck from time to time, courtesy of Jojen's reports to Sansa and House Manderly's to Father.

"Renly smashed Stannis near Storm's End."

"Renly marches for King's Landing, with half the host blocking Tywin Lannister's aid."

"Hightowers"— _watchtowers and oak leaves cull the roosters and burning trees in the walled, hilly holdfast_ , Jojen insists, forcing Sansa to translate—"and Oakhearts met Marbrand and Swyft at the Stony Sept." Some of Renly's army bested some of Tywin's, Sansa understands.

"Renly is very prepared," Father muses, impressed. They've convened to the solar, just the two of them.

"A hundred thousand strong," Sansa illustrates, pointing to where Renly died in the other world. "Rowans, Tarlys, Penroses, Fossoways..."

"The Reach will take a beating, trapped between the Westerlands and the Crownlands."

"Better the Reach than the Riverlands," Sansa reminds him.

The most important battles never happened, anyway—Robb's victories. The scars on Sansa's back are gone, but the knowledge remains.

These conversations are always held in upmost secrecy. Sansa and Father agreed on preserving the neutrality of House Stark, even if Mother will soon question why, after being left entirely unawares of the war. House Tully is also in a vulnerable position—not declaring the Riverlands for any king on Father's advice will sully their honorable reputation, as it did the Vale's. It's different this time around, Sansa determines. The Mountain hasn't been sent to raid and spread terror, nor has Jaime Lannister attacked Riverrun. Father instructed Sansa's grandfather, uncle, and great-uncle to start preparations for Ironborn advances, an excuse for not participating.

Sansa wants to warn Uncle Edmure of the Freys, but these Freys are not the same Freys, she must admit. Still, _no_ marriages to them.

"I'm sorry I deceived you," Sansa says, as Father collects the House pieces and rolls up the map. He looks to her, features soft.

"No more sorry than I am," Father tells her, putting a soothing hand on her shoulder. "We left you behind. You bore a great burden."

A bigger burden she hasn't mentioned, Jojen's words aside. It can wait. Lord Commander Mormont hasn't sent any plea for help yet.

She has time. _They_ have time.

* * *

Sansa keeps a close eye on Theon.

There's no indication of his betrayal, though Sansa mistrusts him nonetheless. _Will you turn your cloak if the Ironborn attack?_ Sansa wonders. Father's presence in Winterfell has changed the story irrevocably—Balon Greyjoy won't dare step foot in the North with Theon held in such a precarious position. On Sansa's advice, Father provided plenty of men to protect the coast, forewarned of the danger.

 _Be loyal_ , Sansa warns in silence, watching Theon when he isn't looking. _Be loyal, and I will not hurt you._

She vows to watch Littlefinger as much as she watches Theon. War or no war, Petyr Baelish is dangerous. He will not lead Mother astray again.

 _Is he the same without the temptation of power? Is anyone?_ Sansa muses, listening to Beth Cassel's chatter. Sansa lost her taste for it in King's Landing, but Beth doesn't need to know that. She's missed the company of girls with harmless gossip. Real, true friends.

Without a marriage in sight—Father assured her it would be a _long_ way off—Sansa allots time for each member of her family.

With Father, it's talks of strategy. They discuss storing food, anticipating a great need. If it seems odd that Sansa pushes for higher quantities, Father doesn't object. She still has her secrets—the Long Night's potential for famine, for one. The dragon queen, another.

With Mother, it's near silence, save for the daily ritual of brushing of Sansa's hair. Mother's smile is all she needs.

Sansa savors Mother's smiles. With Sansa's lord grandfather passing on soon, one of the few deaths in the war that had nothing to do with combat, and Sansa's probably irreversible damage of Lysa's faith in her sister, Sansa anticipates Mother's grief to last many moons.

With Robb, Sansa is a confidant, a role she had before, though not to this degree. There's a lot of things he dreams of, just like her.

"I want to marry for love," Robb admits. _You did_ , Sansa thinks, hiding her sadness. _Though, that never happened..._

She vows to never let Robb's wedding run Red. He'll marry a Northern girl, like Alys Karstark, like the Manderly girls, Wylla or Wynafryd.

Or Margaery, mayhaps, the only southron girl Sansa remembers with fondness, who strove to get Sansa to Highgarden and away from court. Margaery married Renly, however. Still is married, after Stannis and the Red Woman's failure. Father's heard rumors of an heir.

"Mother found love with Father," she says. An old story. Robb hums, brushing the mane of a horse he favors in the stables.

"Five children later, she still smiles when he brings her blue roses."

Sansa brushes the mane of her own horse, beaming behind Robb's back. She catches Hullen's eye, who winks.

With Arya, she doesn't make one insult. She set Jeyne and Beth straight not long ago. Arya will only ever be Arya. Not Horseface.

"Father has a surprise for you," Sansa announces, as Arya's arrow hits the center for the third time. Arya squints, tentative in her trust.

"What's that?"

"It's not a surprise if I _tell_ you," Sansa chides. Arya grumbles, notching another arrow. Sansa just grins. It was her idea, though Father's by omission. Father sent word for Syrio Forel, Arya's water dancing master of the other world. He's coming all the way from Braavos, just in time for Arya's approaching nameday. She thinks it's her aunt's memory that convinces Father to agree after only a little pleading—Lyanna was wilder than Arya, but one day left Winterfell, never to return. Sansa and Father both honor their ghosts, consciously or not.

"It better be good. Right, Nymeria?"

Nymeria gives a commiserating huff. Beside her, Lady sits quietly, almost as silent as Ghost as of late.

With Bran and Rickon, Sansa entertains them with stories, some made up, some from the Age of Heroes, some pilfered from the War of the Five Kings and given happier (if boring) endings. As always, they are a better audience than her sniveling cousin, locked away in the Eyrie. Neither Bran nor Rickon show any hint of Seeing what's to come and dreaming as vividly as Sansa does now, to her relief.

With Jon, Sansa is kind. An apology comes first, of course, followed by her insistence that he stay in Winterfell as long as possible.

"Why?" Father asks, after Sansa pleads for Jon to remain close. "Jon's always wanted to go to the Wall."

"Because," Sansa answers, words rushed. Her final card to play to solidify Father's belief in her. "I know who Jon's mother really is."

Father doesn't shut the request down, but seems to accept her reasoning as yet another admission from the Eddard Stark who died.

 _No_ , Sansa wants to say, if she were braver still. _No, Father. You never told me, told us. I dreamed of it._

Mormont's letter hasn't arrived, though neither has winter. She has time. Time she lost, then regained.

* * *

Sansa and Jojen watch Arya and Meera spar in the yard, content to share lemoncakes and discuss their dreams out of earshot.

"I saw the dragon queen," Sansa tells him, though she's sure he already knows. "She flew over Castle Black, like Queen Alysanne."

She dreams of Daenerys Targaryen often, watching Jon's aunt conquer the East. When Sansa tells him to, Father will bend the knee to Daenerys as Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror, so long as the dragons burn the White Walkers, the real enemy of them all.

A fair deal.

"She'll end the Long Night," Jojen says, confidently, less somber every day. "With our help."

Sansa was to be a queen, once. Then, a Lady of many House seats by marriage, one by birth (Highgarden, Casterly Rock, the Vale, Winterfell...). Sansa parts with these dreams gladly, content to a humble holdfast and a homely husband after the Long Night ends.

One day, before or during the Long Night, Sansa will need to go beyond the Wall and see this three-eyed raven in person. The last greenseer, Jojen calls him. He—the skeletal man on a weirwood throne—has much to teach her. Things the North must know to survive.

Sansa has inherited Bran's destiny. She means to honor it, on her word as a Stark.

 _Maybe Smalljon Umber_ , Sansa muses, putting thoughts of the crow who wants her to fly aside for the moment.

Now, she dreams of the spring after winter.

* * *

"What are you so happy about?" Robb asks, piling pieces of capons onto his plate. "You've been smiling all day."

Sansa balances her spoon at just the right angle, and flings a bit of honeycomb at Arya's face. Rickon howls with laughter.

"Sansa!" Catelyn shouts, outraged.

Sansa ducks. Arya's retaliatory throw of mashed potatoes hits Hodor instead.

"Hodor?"

" _Arya_!"

"Nothing," Sansa tells Robb with a grin, even as Arya pelts her with olives, quick as a snake, fierce as a wolverine. "Just happy!"


End file.
